The Sun Is Shinin And I Wanna Go
by this-ism that-ism
Summary: Fate has a roundabout way of getting to the point. Spike's not a fan of detours. Angel/SPN
1. Chapter 1

**The Sun Is Shinin' And I Wanna Go**

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**Warnings: **Language. Spike corrupting an innocent child (in a lighthearted way; it's not creepy or anything).

**Timeline/Spoilers: **Set post _Not Fade Away_ for Ats; post-S3 AU for SPN.**  
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****ONE**

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One minute, it's war.

Screaming thunder, sparks of clashing steel in the blurry downpour, screeches, death cries, splashing, stomping, everything a confusing, violent mess, and then there's this roar, deafening and _way too bleeding close_.

He whirls and the brutal soundtrack of battle abruptly goes dull, a picket-fence of teeth tearing into his neck, viscous yellow slobber and the rancid heat of dragon breath as foul darkness swallows his head. His weapon clangs to the wet concrete, hands flailing upward to shove uselessly at the scaly snout. Tendons rip, bone crunches, cartilage snaps, blood spurts and fills his mouth, nose, eyes, and there's pain, pain, so much searing pain as his head tears off his body and, of all bloody things, Kansas is crooning away in the back of his mind. _Dust In The Wind_, and he's just waiting for that to apply to him, to float away on the stormy gales in particles and pieces into that final, blessed nothing...

The next minute, it's the sun.

Bright and everywhere, scalding and deadly, and there's no escaping it. No cover.

One arm sails up, inadequate hand splayed to fend off the rays as his other gropes for the collar of his duster to yank up over his flammable parts. Only he can't find the customary smoothness of the supple, worn-in leather. Ends up with a fistful of torn black tee that rides up his torso and exposes more than it covers.

"Bloody hell! What the—" He spins around as if the action will do anything useful, reveal his missing coat or perhaps trick the sun into not killing him for another few seconds. All it does is kick up a lot of dust, and it takes him long, long minutes to realize he is not on fire. Is showing no signs of catching fire anytime soon. "W-what?"

Spike blinks, lowers his hand to shield his eyes as he angles his head up a little. It's so blinding and _warm_. Ages since he felt that in a direct, non-fatal way, and even as confused as he is about the abrupt change in scenery, he takes a moment to bask. The last time he'd felt the sun it was burning him from the inside out, merging and tugging at his soul as the craggy earth caved in all around him.

It's not too much longer before his brain is plodding ahead to ruin his mild contentment, connecting the seconds and trying to work it out. He takes stock, checks himself and glances around.

He's on a gravel road, the bleached kind that leaves a chalky residue on his pantlegs and reflects the day in an unforgiving glare. There's a huge pit off to the side, heaps of reddish dirt piled along its edges, some abandoned construction project, and nothing but the burnt yellows and deep greens of summer grass for miles and miles. He's still undead as far as he can tell, no need for breath or a new thumping pulse beneath his skin, so no Shan-shu for him, thank the bloody Queen.

He recalls now that his duster got caught up in a sewer grate as he hit the ground at one point, and he'd had to twist himself free to avoid the giant foot descending on him, which is a load of bollocks. He loved that coat. Sodding Wolfram and Hart armies.

His fingers graze carefully along his neck, the phantom agony of the dragon's teeth taking its time fading out. His head is still attached, no jagged flaps of skin and gory strings, no gushing punctures, not even a scratch. Well, that's one for the relief column. Just because he could easily fill the monster role in a horror movie doesn't mean he wants to go around looking the part. Makes it a bit difficult to blend.

And blending is always a handy option to have, especially since he has no idea where the hell he is or what kind of natives he may run into.

The lack of fatal sunlight clues him in to the fact that he's leaped a rainbow or two. Angel's regaled him with too many wistful tales of his fleeting times in the sun for Spike not to put that together. Add in the dying—_again_—and he's quickly chalking this up to something that can be blamed on the Powers. It's either a spectacularly boring afterlife, an annoying accident, or it's some blinkered new mission the PTB have going on and he's drawn the short straw. They're always switching the playing field out from under a bloke mid-pass without so much as a by your bloody leave, can't even be arsed to provide a new play book.

He rules out the afterlife since he's fairly certain his would involve torment of some kind, and if it's an accident, well, that sucks. Better to just be irritated with those on-high and pretend there's a greater purpose until he's informed otherwise.

He frowns down at his tattered shirt and jeans. His injuries seem to have miraculously vanished but the evidence of his recent skirmish is still hanging from every torn, blood-soaked fiber. So much for not looking like a slasher.

Spike heaves an exasperated sigh, and the sweet tang of the summer air hits him. The static of it that's somehow... different. Wrong.

It's not wrong in a bad way, simply in a way that conveys he is a fish in the wrong pond. New water, different minerals, and it won't kill him, but it'll take some adjusting. It's not like being the square peg in a round hole is anything new, anyway. Spike's grown resigned to his splintered edges scoring grooves into the perfect roundness of everything, mostly tries to ignore the constant, uncomfortable grating and get on with whatever needs getting on with at the time.

Currently, he appears to have a road to conquer.

He doesn't know what's in store, what's left behind—if Peaches and Blue will actually survive the insurmountable odds—doesn't really want to think too hard about any of it because he's never done the brooding and he's not about to start now just because the designated brooder is absent.

No way to go but through, so he trudges ahead to see what arse-about-face destiny he's got to fulfill this time.

-:-

Gravel morphed into a two-lane blacktop ages ago. The sun is dipping low and burning the horizon in bleeding waves, indecipherable constructs just hedging up on a blur with the telltale stain of artificial light taking over for the night, when he finally stumbles onto a scrap of civilization.

Spike's face cracks into an appreciative grin when he sees the buzzing neon painting the filmed windows of the crooked, sagging structure. He's sore, tired and hot, and could really go for something cool and foaming. He may not produce any heat, but he still absorbs and suffers high temperatures, and his inability to sweat only adds to his problem. His body's got no way to cool itself down, and it's definitely not accustomed to prolonged hours of exertion beneath that burning fireball in the sky. Not that he'll get tired of non-deadly sunburns anytime soon, mind you.

The dirt lot is scattered with muddy semis, motorcycles, and other familiar motor vehicles, so he takes that as a sign that the resident lifeforms are similar to those on his home planet. His assumption is further confirmed as a pair of entangled human bodies stumble out of the bar, rattling glass door carelessly slapped open and bass spilling out from the interior to vibrate the ground beneath his boots as they hold each other up by sheer luck, falling into each other instead of away, and somehow managing forward momentum through it all.

Spike skirts around the couple too drunk to notice his homicidal maniac chic, and luck stays with him as he finds the inside of the bar weakly illuminated—colored lamps over the pool tables and more neon beer signs over the mirror-back bar, floating dust-motes clouding the view that much further. No one even looks up at him.

First things first. He locates the bathrooms and braves the backwoods idea of hygiene, washes all the rust-colored muck off as best he can. A wiry kid decked with ear studs and facial tattoos falls through the door to interrupt his sink bath, takes about two steps toward a urinal and faceplants, doesn't get back up. Spike eyes him for a moment, shrugs to himself and proceeds to strip the baggy, black hoodie from his person. It's got a godawful skull and crossbones distortion plastered across its front, but it covers what his ragged t-shirt won't. He's grateful he's an all black sort of bloke, because though his jeans are torn, they hide bloodstains pretty effectively.

Sauntering back toward the bar, he scans the room for his mark. The pool game looks a better prospect than picking pockets, so he makes his way over and hustles a few hundred dollars out of the until-now reigning champ. The pool-king trucker thankfully seems to be a very happy drunk. Spike's feeling magnanimous so he offers to only take half of what he earned if the guy agrees to buy a few rounds, mentions to the bartender that he might want to see to the comatose kid in the bathroom.

By the time he leaves again, he's a few steps further along the road to orientation. He's got a decent starter fund bulging in his pockets, and the locals were kind enough to inform him that he's skipped a few states, got thrown ahead in the timeline while he was at it—the nearest town is Lafayette, Indiana, and it's 2008.

The trucker gives him a lift to the closest motel. Spike plans ahead one step at a time. Any further than that and he'll lose track, or patience, end up turned around and back at the start. So after checking into the nondescript room that hasn't seen a duster in the last fifty years, he grabs a map from the lobby and heads to the nearest cemetery to see what bumps.

-:-

Nothing bumped. Bloody zilch.

Spike's been in his whole new world for weeks now, and there's nothing dazzling about it. No monsters, no magics, not even any munchkins or yellow brick roads (at least, none that he's found yet).

He is utterly and maddeningly bored out of his skull.

The sun is a lovely perk, don't get him wrong. But, as much as he didn't think it was possible after over a century in the dark, the novelty of it seems to be wearing off. He's been poolside, lakeside, and curbside, just soaking up the rays, gets lobster-red almost every time and fails to tan at all for some reason. It's been bloody ace, but clinging to surfaces like some solar-powered lizard at random moments is not enough to keep a vamp happy.

He needs a little action flung in the middle somewhere. He's always been a bit on the hyperactive side, he can admit, and being what he is, there's too much power trapped inside his unassuming form with nowhere to go. He needs to fucking hit something. Something that will have the courtesy to hit back and mean it.

Reluctant to venture too far from the spot he was unceremoniously poofed into re-existence, Spike's mostly been circling, pushing out his radius just a little further every day. Staying still on top of no decent violence is way too sodding much to ask, and when he wakes up all twisted and askew in the backseat of the beat-up '75 Dodge Charger he kindly relieved an overzealous mugger of on one of his less boring nights, a fairly obvious and annoying realization hits him.

Just because the Powers dropped him there doesn't mean anything. They don't possess that thing known as common sense a lot of the time, and it's stupid to assume whatever's going to happen won't smack him over the head when it finally rears its ugly head. That's usually the way of things, after all. No sense whatsoever in sticking to a place as plagued with unholy nothing as Indiana when there are casinos in Vegas just calling his name, or caves in Carlsbad he never got around to exploring. There's the bleeding Grand Canyon, too, and he just happens to be in a position to see it in all its magnificent sun-drenched glory.

He is a complete twit for taking so long to figure this out, but it's fine. Just a little lost time to make up for. As soon as he stretches out the kinks that have settled in over the course of his nap, Spike gets to it. The sky's gone slate grey, edges washed the faintest pink with the setting sun. He floors the pedal and zips onto the first freeway he sees, follows wherever it takes him.

-:-

It's coming up on the wrong side of morning when Spike finds his not-quite wish granted. Sort of.

He stops outside Indianapolis to fuel up, a dingy gas mart that's beyond ready to give up the ghost. He can imagine the creaking exterior actually panting in its desperate attempt to stay lit and keep its pumps flowing. The pasty clerk behind the counter looks just as ready to go down with his ship, barely keeps his eyes open long enough to take Spike's money.

This only cements his conclusion that the red-bird state is a soul-sucking void, and he feels an itch start beneath his skin, urging him to hurry this along and get back on the road.

Stalking quickly back to the Charger, the waterfall sounds of traffic on the nearby overpass are briefly drowned out by a garbled scream. Spike whirls toward the source of the noise, one high-pitched voice standing out among two deeper baritones. He charges for the shadowed opening between the gas station and the wire fence that fends off an expanse of roadside bramble.

"Stranger danger! Help! Geddoffame, you fucking crackhead!"

"Quit that, you little shit or I'll give you something to—OW! Son of a bitch!"

There's a small twinge of disappointment when he figures he'll be raining on another parade in the mundane world of human crime, but Spike dutifully slides up into the little alley and immediately picks out who needs saving. There are two burly silhouettes hunched low and scrambling over each other to get to the much smaller and faster form dancing around them.

"My dad's gonna tear you apart and make you wear your asses on your heads!" With that threat, the kid spins to avoid another grabby hand and strikes out at the same time, foot connecting solidly with a shin.

The man staggers back and trips over the detritus surrounding the overflowing dumpster, lands in a sprawl over a pile of leaking trash bags and curses to his partner to take his turn trying to wrangle the wily little beast.

Spike watches the struggle a bit longer, highly amused by the boy's spunk. He looks like a street rat at first glance, dirt-streaked face, sharp cheekbones that indicate meals are few and far between, but the little denim jacket and jeans are not exactly inexpensive cast-offs even if they are soiled. Light-up sneakers aren't readily available at most Salvation Army stores either, last he checked.

One of the men finally manages to snag the boy's ankle and holds him upside down, kicking and dangling and snarling, pissed as a wet cat.

"Lemme go! My dad's got a million guns and knives! He's gonna shoot you right in your ugly faces and spit in your mouths and pull your eyes out! Pedophiles! Freaks! Help! I'm being molested!"

"Too bad we're supposed to bring him in in one piece," the other man grumbles as he straightens himself out, glaring darkly at the twisting child. "Woulda been easier to just—" Spike's approach brings him up short, and he goes ramrod stiff. "You get one warning, guy. Fuck off, or die screaming."

Spike snorts at the hard stare that's meant to intimidate him, but he notes that neither man reaches for a weapon. The kid's crackhead assumption might not be far off, as they're both pretty scruffy-looking, stringy hair and mismatched, worn clothing that boasts at least a week's worth of accumulated body odor, but their eyes are far too clear for drug abuse to be a current factor. Homeless fragrance aside, there's something else about them that doesn't smell quite right, and they exude enough confidence in their ability to dispatch him bare-handed to keep him cautious.

Spike flashes a toothy grin, not quite fanged, but feral enough to make the man second-guess his automatic dismissal of him. "Lad seems to've gotten your knickers all in a knot." He flicks a glance at the boy, who's gone carefully quiet, doing his best from his inverted viewpoint to figure out what the new player means for his immediate fate. Spike tries not to wince, but the kid's coloring combined with that deeply serious frown reminds him way too much of Angel for a split second. He shakes it off. "Don't suppose you'd like to simplify things for all of us and hand him over?"

A beat, and the man holding the kid asks slowly, "What's your interest?"

Spike cocks his head, starting to think there's more here than a simple kidnapping. Not that it matters much. He's only mildly curious.

"He's the first thing I've seen with any personality since I got here," is Spike's automatic response, because it's true enough. He gives the boy a small smirk, but it doesn't seem to put him at ease so much as make him warier. "'Sides," he crams his hands into his pockets and glances around with a bored expression, "he doesn't seem too taken with his new playmates."

Another long pause as they consider him, the boy renews his struggles, brave face slashed through with fleeting terror, and Spike gets impatient.

Before anyone can blink, his knuckles have crushed the shorter man's windpipe, crumpling him to the dirty concrete to writhe around and gurgle in agony. That leaves him to face the one restraining the boy, and just as it occurs to him that holding a kid up like that, even a small one, should have set the guy's arm muscles to shaking by now, he gets an unpleasant surprise in the form of being propelled backward by an unseen force.

Suddenly pinned like a butterfly to the faded brickwork, Spike struggles and curses and generally wants to know what in the bleeding hell is going on. This wasn't in the manual (not that he ever got one of those, but he's pretty sure this wouldn't be in it if he had). The next surprise comes too fast for him to process much of the first, and he finds himself experiencing the beastly sensation of having his neck twisted round at an unnatural angle.

"Argh! Son of a filthy harlet!" Morphing into his game face without conscious thought, Spike cracks his head back into place to see the man's eyes have gone pitch black. He doesn't look altogether happy about the fact that Spike is not a lifeless corpse.

Well, at least he's not the only one on the receiving end of the surprises tonight, so that's something.

Kicking up his struggles, he starts a gradual shimmy down the wall while the other should-be-dead-but-isn't man gathers himself up off the ground, spitting blood and mucus everywhere and unable to vocalize the insults firing from his glare.

Trying to get off the wall expends no small amount of energy, so it doesn't take long for Spike to decide that since he doesn't really know what this new threat is, he's not going to be very effective in neutralizing it. Black magic was his initial thought, except it doesn't feel quite right. Willow always gave off a scent like ozone, and those workings of hers usually got his inanimate bloodstream crackling like static. These wankers have more of a rotten egg stench going on, and their power feels hot and weighted, like molten lead pressing itself into his pores.

Teeth clenched, Spike gives a great forward heave and peels himself from the wall, uses the one advantage he seems to have over them and surges forward faster than they can track him. He's streaking back toward his car with a screaming body thrown over his shoulder before they even realize they're short a victim, and the Charger is speeding up the on-ramp before they coordinate themselves enough to give chase.

Spike grins wickedly until he realizes how it must come off to the wide-eyed boy in the passenger's seat. He does his best to school his features as he zips in and out of lanes with reckless abandon, blaring horns and flashing brights in his wake. Even though he knows he's probably landed in some spectacular web of trouble, he can't help but be pleased with himself. It's about bloody time, really.

The lad's looking a little peaky, straining up against the opposite door and white-knuckling the edge of the seat.

"All right? No honkin' in the car," Spike says, watching the boy nervously. He doesn't want to be trapped in a box with that stench all day, thank you very much. "Need me to pull over?"

The boy hastily shakes his head, then cranes around to gape out the back window. Checking for black-eyed pillocks, Spike wagers. His numb shock seems to wear off then, and he whips his head back around, the most adorable little glare beaming right for Spike.

No, it's not bloody adorable. It's just... a tad ridiculous on that little face. In a really cute way. Spike frowns.

"They killed you," the kid speaks up, flat and annoyed and the tiniest tremor of fear beneath all that. "You shouldn't be driving."

Spike can't hold back the snort. "S'not like being under the influence, whelp. I'm sharp-headed, no worries."

The boy's only response is to glare some more, obviously unimpressed with Spike's heroic rescue _and _his sense of humor. Dark eyes, dark hair, still too serious, and there's no brief comparison about it. The kid is a miniature version of Peaches. It's right unsettling.

"Got a name or do I get to make one up?" Spike tries, pushing that thought away. He doesn't miss the poof. Really.

The boy doesn't look too thrilled at the idea of being nicknamed if his tight-lipped scowl is anything to go by, but it turns out he's just as stubborn as he is scrappy. "Where are you taking me?"

"Nowhere specific. Far away from the bad men. That not good enough for you? Shall I let his brassed-off majesty out here?" Spike's smirking again, but it's been a bit since he had a live person to talk to, never mind that he's four feet tall and a little on the scrawny side. Looks like he found his munchkin, after all.

"No!" he snaps instantly, takes a deep breath and scowls at himself. "Are you... what are you?" the boy hedges.

Spike huffs and figures he should take this more seriously. Young ones don't usually revel in this sort of chaos like he does. Hell, most adults don't either. It's pretty admirable that the kid's not screeching and panicking, though. There might be more to him, maybe a familiarity with what passes for weird in these parts.

"M'a bit different, is all. Nothin' for you to fret about. Won't hurt you." The kid flinches when Spike reaches across the dash to snatch up his cigarettes, so he figures he'll have to work on the convincing a little more as he cracks his window. "You said something about your dad, yeah? Want me to take you to him?"

"You're giving me lung cancer."

Spike quirks a brow, fag clenched between his lips. "Right." He puffs a stream of cancer-inducing smog out the window. "We can play it your way, I s'pose. You don't wanna give me a straight answer, m'just gonna hafta improvise. The bed's in the back, the grub's a bit dodgy, and I'm a very rude man. Make yourself at home, Bitty Peach."

He settles back in his seat for the long drive, but the kid doesn't bite, just throws his arms across his chest and slouches, glowering at the dashboard.

Not usually one for thinking too far ahead, Spike finds himself having to do just that. Because if the boy won't cooperate, he might just have to follow through on the whole ickle sidekick thing, and now there's a wave of panic crashing in and no, this is no good at all. He's the last person on Earth qualified to look after a young, impressionable child, but he can't very well leave him with the authorities if he's got yet-to-be-identified nasties on his tail. Spike may not know what they are, but he's in a better position to find out and fend them off than any copper who'll refuse to believe it in the first place.

Bugger.

The drive continues in silence for endless miles. Spike chain smokes while the boy does his best not to give in to his exhaustion, eyes drooping and snapping back open until he takes to fidgeting around to keep himself alert. Once he's put a good distance between themselves and the gas mart, Spike slows to the speed limit and takes the next off-ramp, opting for roads less traveled. Reflective green signs and the heavy haze of tail lights disappear in favor of tree-lined ditches and power lines, the sky lightening from purple to ash like a fading bruise. Spike engages in more and more sideways glances, trying to puzzle the kid out, trying to plot his next move.

He's pale, malnourished, clearly scared and angry about it, restless, like he should be doing something more than he is but doesn't have the means.

"Stop staring," the boy finally snaps, not even looking at Spike. His eyes are firmly glued to the passenger-side window, but whether he's actually seeing the monotonous flattened bronze of summertime's roadside landscape, or staring blankly at his own opaque reflection is anyone's guess.

"Sorry, Peach. Got this innate curiosity I can't seem to do much about." Spike smirks tiredly as the boy deigns to turn that dark gaze on him, and the loud gurgle of a tiny stomach announces his next immediate course loud and clear. Spike flicks his cigarette out the window and lights another. "What say we stop for a bite? Feelin' a bit peckish myself."

The constant scowl falters, and the boy gives a grudging nod. "I'm not a fruit," he says as Spike keeps on the lookout for a place to eat, and he's scrutinizing his rescuer openly now.

Spike shrugs, unrepentant. "S'what m'callin' you 'til you give me something else to go on."

"Those guys back there," he changes the subject again, bites his lip, reluctant and still watching Spike closely. "There was something wrong with them."

"Seems that way," Spike agrees. The boy's waiting for more, but Spike doesn't have it. "Honestly, I know as much as you. Maybe less."

More silence in which the kid fidgets around some more, a shaky sigh, and then, "There was something wrong with my mom."

It's barely a breath, like he doesn't want to admit it aloud because that will make it true, but Spike can tell the lad needs to tell someone about it. He's suffering a distinct lack of options here, as Spike is the only non-hostile ear around at the moment, and while he knows his intentions are shady from the boy's perspective, he hasn't blatantly tried to hurt him yet, has been as honest as he can be.

Spike keeps quiet and nods his encouragement, waiting to see if the rest will follow.

The boy turns his head back toward the window and goes on just as quietly, "Her eyes were black. She got real mean. She gets mad sometimes but... she's never been mean." He swallows audibly, little frame trembling with letting himself remember. Spike wants to make that stop, but really, really doesn't know how. It makes his fists itch, so he clenches his hand tighter around the wheel and puffs harder on his cigarette. "She was yelling and chasing me, and then she just stopped and started crying. She was shaking real bad, like something was hurting her. She told me to run away. I didn't wanna leave her but she just kept screaming for me to run over and over, and then her eyes turned black again."

The boy sniffles and wipes at his face, hiding it from Spike's view. "And then she was talking about my dad. I never knew who my dad was, but there was this man one time. Something was taking the kids in our neighborhood, pretending to be us, and he stopped it. He said they were monsters. I think... I think maybe a monster got inside my mom, and it said that man was my dad. It was pretty mad at him about something, and then it started telling me all the things it was gonna do to me to make him sorry. So I ran."

The boy is curled into himself at this point, face buried in his knees as he hugs them close, and he turns to peer across at Spike, all bright, miserable eyes and tear-sheened cheeks. A chest that's been still and vacant for the last hundred-odd years suddenly feels too full and active.

"I just left her there," he mutters wetly. "How could I do that?"

Spike clears his throat, which is harder than he'd like, but the effort pays off when his voice comes out mostly normal. "Nothin' you coulda done for her, Bit. If you'd stayed, she might well have killed you, and she wouldn't have been able to live with herself for that. Believe me when I say you saved her from a fate worse than death."

The boy chokes on a sob, but pulls himself together pretty quickly. At least enough to keep talking. Strong one, this runt, and he reminds Spike of Dawn now more than Angel. Dawn he knew how to handle, so that makes him feel a little less like he's floundering outside the space-time continuum. This kid's a little younger, but no less resilient.

"I went next door and told Miss Becca to call the police. Her eyes turned black too. Everyone started coming outside, but... they were all monsters. I don't know if it's true, if he's my dad, but he knows about that stuff and I thought maybe I should call him. So I ran back home and I got my mom's phone." He stops long enough to tug a small cell phone from his pocket, stares at it like it holds the secrets of the universe, and then reluctantly hands it over to Spike. "I think I broke it. I don't know the number," he admits self-depreciatively. "Mom made me memorize all these emergency numbers, but she never did it with his. Monsters are fucked up enough to be an emergency, right?" The boy sounds a little pissed at the woman, but it's understandable. Anger often mixes itself in with sorrow and fear, presents a handhold of the barest control if nothing else.

"I'd say so." Spike inspects the cracked screen, checks that all parts are in the right places, and determines the thing probably just needs a charge. It should at least work enough to give up the contacts stored inside. If not, he can swipe another one just like it and switch out the SIM card. "S'not all sixes and sevens yet, Peach. I'll find us a gadget store and see about this thing, yeah?"

"Ben."

"Whassat?"

"My name's Ben. Stop calling me fruity names. I'm not a little bitch."

Spike snickers as he hands the phone back, adding a little of Buffy into this kid's personality. _It's Buffy, Spike. B-U-F-F-Y. Stop calling me pet names. I'm not furry._

Ben takes the cell reverently, carefully tucks it back into his filthy denim jacket. He's regarding Spike with less wariness now, and a little more hope. "You really wanna help me?"

Spike slides him a mildly patronizing look. "If I wanted to hurt you, I would've eaten you by now." He smiles warmly to nullify any fear that might otherwise induce. "'Sides, s'not like I've got anything better to do."

Ben breathes a sigh of relief, probably his first in days, weeks, or however long he's been beating the streets, and lets himself relax into the seat just as a battered sign indicates FOOD/GAS/LODGING will present itself in one and a quarter miles.

Spike decides this doesn't have to be quite as dramatic and terrifying as he first thought. He should be able to look after Ben long enough to find his dad who, from the sound of it, knows a lot more than either of them about this dimension's brand of weird. He figures he can pump the bloke for information in return for saving his kid from a pair of monsters and life in the gutter, which will go a long way toward alleviating his boredom in this world, and everyone can walk away happy.

The plan's not too long-term or detailed to get him in trouble, so he's feeling downright chipper by the time he pulls into a slot at the Sonic drive-in and orders something for the two of them. There are still a few minor things that need working out, like his next trip to a hospital and explaining his little blood-drinking habit to the lad, something distinctly less fragrant for Ben to wear and all that fluff, but he's sure he can manage it.

"All right, Ben. Got some things you're gonna need to know. M'a bit quirky, and I don't need you goin' barmy on me, so pay attention." Spike reclines to wait for their order, lights another cigarette and blows smoke at the roof. "We'll share and care, yeah? I talk, and then you tell me all about your dad in case that phone of yours doesn't pan out."

Ben angles himself around so that's he's leaning against the door and facing Spike, splays his hands, receptive. "Shoot."


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

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Ben has nothing to say to the vampire revelation.

Spike pauses for the blowout, but when the boy just keeps stuffing his face and looking at him like he's waiting to be dazzled, he moves on to the part about hailing from another world, exaggerating his glorious, heroic death and adventurous teleportation. The kid refuses to be impressed and it's right irritating, only a slight quirk of his brow to indicate his doubts as to Spike's death by dragon, like that's the most unbelievable thing about the whole sodding tale.

Spike's tapping his fingers against the wheel, huffing around his cigarette as he wraps it up, and then he's left in awkward silence only broken up by the crinkle of Sonic foil and the boy's obnoxious chewing for endless minutes.

Ben wads his fast food litter and tosses it on the floorboard, pats at his belly in satisfaction, looking as if all is right with the world now that greasy food a regular part of things again. "You don't have a cape, do you?"

"What?" Spike's indignant. Well, _more_ indignant. "Do I look like a bloody poofter to you?"

Ben takes the time to look him up and down like it deserves serious consideration, shrugs. "M'not sure. What's a poofter?"

Spike opens his mouth, clacks it shut again. Probably not the best thing to be discussing with an eight-year-old. More important things to be getting on with, anyway. "Never mind, runt."

He starts the car and pulls back onto the highway, grumbling to himself. Blasted kids and their kill-em-all movies and games and what-all. Generation's too sodding jaded for a scary bloke to get any actual scaring done. Not that he wants to scare the lad, really, but a small gasp would've been nice. Maybe a little quaking.

"Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?" he snaps several minutes later, slowing to take the next turn into a strip mall. "You're s'posed t'be screamin' and tryin' to claw my eyes out or summat."

Ben shrugs again, mutters something about vampires being "lame and girly now 'cause of that one movie," too distracted with watching the light jumble of cars and foot traffic as Spike finds a parking space. It's early yet, the morning sky leaden with bloated clouds and the air sticky with the promise of rain. Spike grumbles some more and shoves out, apparently having lost the little interest the kid had been affording him for share time.

When his brisk stride toward the Radio Shack isn't echoed by the pitter patter of annoying little feet, he stops and glances back.

Ben's still in the car, doesn't look too keen on emerging this century.

Oh, _now _he wants to be afraid. Bloody typical. Rolling his eyes heavenward, Spike stomps over and gestures impatiently for him to come on already.

"I look homeless," is Ben's petulant excuse as he flaps a hand at his soiled clothes. "People're gonna think you're a terrible parent. What if someone calls social services on us?"

"I'll growl at 'em," Spike drawls, cocking a brow. "Unlike you, most people know how to be terrified when a man grows a pair of fangs. Hop to, Peach, I don't have all bleeding day."

Ben crosses his arms and presses himself as far into the seat as possible. "Yes, you do. You said you didn't have anything better to do."

"Oh, bloody hell. Didn't anyone ever teach you to tune out the grown-ups when they're talking?"

"Nope." He smirks, trying to enjoy getting on Spike's nerves but not quite accomplishing it, eyes ranging around anxiously at the people strolling in and out of stores.

"Look, Benny boy. M'not leavin' you here to get nabbed again, so you've got two choices. Come along with the big, bad vamp who'll protect you, or get conked over the head. Second option will make me cranky, by the by. Don't fancy carrying you around everywhere."

Ben doesn't challenge Spike's ability to haul him around unconscious without arousing suspicion, and Spike would be grateful for that if it weren't for the boy breaking into a sweat and turning too green for his liking.

"What if they're all monsters? There were, like, a million people in my neighborhood," he croaks, leg jittering. Ben's eyes get huge as he fumbles at his pocket, spilling the cell phone into his lap before clutching onto it for dear life, voice edging higher. "What if he won't come? I hafta help my mom, but I can't do it by myself!"

Spike sighs, annoyed that he can't stay annoyed, kneels onto the asphalt and waggles his fingers. Ben reluctantly hands over the phone. "Cheer up, bit. We'll take it as we go, yeah? He can't make it, we'll just hafta improvise. M'a brilliant strategist." He grins brightly to sell the lie, looks around to make sure no one's paying him any special attention. "Got yourself a real, live superhero on the case already. Here."

Digging through the floorboard miscellany, Spike comes up with the crowbar the car's previous owner had used to try and beat his head in for not giving up his wallet like a nice little victim (and probably to ascertain "ownership" of said car too, before Spike took it), holds it up for the lad's inspection, then proceeds to bend it into interesting shapes without the slightest hint of strain.

"Whoa," Ben breathes, suitably amazed when Spike holds up the iron origami. It's a bird, or at least that's what he was going for. Smirking again now, Ben says, "You should totally get a cape."

Spike scoffs, chunking the tool into the backseat. "M'not prancin' around in any capes. Let it go." He dusts his pants off and straightens, regards the boy expectantly and not a little warily. "You gonna come along now, or do you need some more mollycoddling?"

Ben frowns hard, hops out of the car and slams the door, turns to glare up at his rescuer with his arms folded over his little chest. "You kinda suck at this, ya know."

Spike shrugs. "Got you out of your cave, didn't I?"

Ben doesn't seem to have a response for that, and they head into the Radio Shack.

Still a little excitable, Ben latches onto Spike's hand and melds himself to his shadow, glancing around like a paranoid junkie on alert for five-o. It takes him a minute to realize just how hard he's clinging, and once he does he determinedly distances himself and glares at everyone that dares look in his general direction.

Spike is not endeared to the little brat's stubborn bravado in the least. It's not like he's keeping him, so there's no reason to find the bit _more_ adorable. That way lies melancholy, and Spike's visited there often enough, thanks very much.

The sales clerk takes too much of an interest in the boy's tramp chic as they pretend to browse, eyeing Spike with marked disdain. When she starts muttering under her breath, Spike takes grand offense and tells her to get stuffed, he'll go shop someplace else, gives her a two-fingered salute for effect and ushers Ben back outside, new cell charger snug in his waistband.

A Target looms nearby, and they brave the early senior crowd. Spike pilfers a new kit for the boy, grabs a couple of things for himself as well. He can only go so long recycling two pairs of pants and three shirts anyway.

Things go awry as they pass a row of tables marked for clearance, women huddled all around and tittering, clogging up the aisle. Spike discovers just how frustrating it is to be short, as Ben is mostly unseen, elbowed and hip-checked and, on one occasion, nearly plowed right over with a shopping cart.

"Oi, twerp!" Spike doesn't hesitate to turn around and smack the pimple-faced sales clerk manning the high-speed basket upside the head. He's all glassy-eyed drone returning various items to their shelves until he realizes he's being assaulted, gets squeaky and apologetic in a hurry as Spike plucks an abused Ben from the floor and shelters him close. "That how you get your kicks? Traumatizing innocent children? Pull your head out of your arse!"

Ignoring the rest of the git's mortification as the guy keeps yammering on, he crouches down to make sure Ben's not bleeding profusely anywhere. "He clipped you a good one, didn't he?" he grumbles, seeing the nasty welt forming on the boy's side. "S'gonna bruise."

Ben swats at him, frowning and red-faced and looking completely humiliated at the display, at which point Spike suddenly remembers he's a terrifying creature and not a mother hen, and straightens. Thinking fast, he offers to buy some candy, relieved that it's all so swiftly forgotten when Ben beams up at him.

Paying for as little as he can get away with so as not to look too criminal after his little outburst, Spike quickly scoots them back out to the car with a ruefully light wallet. He's going to need to come up with some more dosh soon.

"All right?" he asks once they're back on the road, and Ben nods. He's visibly more relaxed with the outside world blurring beyond their haven of glass and steel, a decidedly large bag of Skittles covering his lap as he crams handful after handful into his mouth.

Spike drives them further away from the city, and Ben takes his turn to share.

His maybe-dad's name is Dean Winchester, he's got a really cool car and a brother named Sam, who apparently descends from Andre the Giant because he's "seriously, like, a million feet tall." Spike wonders if that's the only number the boy knows as he turns into a deserted rest stop off the highway. Ben's looking a little wilted, so he figures it's a good time to hit the showers and have a kip.

It's awkward at first, trying to avoid the grimy mirrors out of habit, before he rolls his eyes at himself and poses front and center, gesturing impatiently for Ben to get his fill of gawking and get it over with.

Again, the lad doesn't react the way a child hunted by monsters should, just grins and makes Spike lift him up so he can see himself floating in mid-air, remarks that it's kinda freaky but in a cool way, and goes on about his business.

The boy's tolerance is a bit unnatural, and when pressed, Ben simply says, "I thought the whole point of being honest was so I wouldn't spaz out."

Brutal honesty hasn't always worked out for Spike's social life, though he never seems to be able to help himself, but in this case it certainly seems the best policy. Ben's a kid, not an idiot, and it's not like he doesn't possess a similarly afflicted of brain-to-mouth filter.

"Your hair is weird. Is that a vampire thing?"

They're back in the car, and the backseat really is the bed, at least for today. Ben's ensconced in half of the bedclothes Spike has accrued from various motels, shower-damp head poking out from his nest. Spike is stretched across the bench seat up front, reclining against the window with one arm slung behind his head, smoke billowing and dispersing along the roof.

"Your mouth is running. Is that a brat thing?" He absolutely _does not _pat surreptitiously at his wild curls. Hair product hasn't been the most pressing of his concerns of late, is all.

"Your face is a brat thing," Ben gets out around a gaping yawn. He jerks at a particularly violent thunderclap.

The skies have finally opened up and let loose, water sluicing the windows and drumming rhythmically at the roof, and the crack and rumble of the storm is making the lad jumpy again. Spike keeps forgetting he's so young and terrified half out of his mind, but it's not like anyone can blame him given the kid's smart mouth and easy acceptance of the wrong things. Ben's tired, but he can't quite get himself relaxed enough to zonk out, hence keeping Spike awake with insults and inane babble.

Spike thinks better of stooping to 'your mom' jokes—it's a sensitive subject, and he has too much respect for the memory of his own mum to tolerate any backlash—and instead plucks the phone off the dash. It's been charging a while, comes on readily enough when he holds the button down.

Ben winds himself up that much tighter, sitting up stiffly and staring at the device in Spike's hand as if it's poised to bite him any moment.

"Might as well get it over with," Spike suggests gently, offering the phone.

It's best all around if he knows what he's got to work with as soon as possible. If the bloke won't, or can't take Ben, that changes the game entirely. Ben's presence will be a tad more long-term, and that's going to require at least one case of the hard stuff and two or more days in which to panic.

Biting his lip, Ben takes a deep breath and nods. He stabs at the buttons hastily, like he'll lose the nerve if it doesn't happen within the next five seconds, smacks the thing against his ear as if to glue it there through sheer force, and his anxious, dark eyes never waver from Spike's as he listens to the ring.

Spike stabs out his cigarette and rolls up the barely cracked window to muffle the sound of rain.

It rings once, twice, a dozen times—or closer to a million, if you're Ben—before there's a static-laden click that could signal voice mail picking up, or—

"'Lo?"

The boy's eyes bug out of his skull, and he loses ten shades of color in a beat flat.

Spike gives an encouraging nod, coaches softly, "Just leave out the dad bit for now. Tell him what happened to your mum." From what the lad told him, this Dean fellow ought to be suitably concerned for the lady, no need to drive him off his trolley from the get-go with the paternity revelation.

It occurs to him a second later to add, "And no need to get into who may or may not have a heartbeat. Don't fancy any righteous twits tryin' to shove unnecessary wood bits in me. That'll be our little secret, all right?"

Ben can't seem to make his big mouth work to acknowledge him one way or the other, teeth digging harshly into his bottom lip. Spike nudges his shoulder to snap him out of it.

"Hello?" the sleep-rough baritone prompts again, irritated. "Who the fuck is there?"

"D-Dean?" Ben squeaks, little fingers tight and bloodless around the phone.

The hostility's still present, but there's a cautious note to the drawl now. "Who's this?"

"It's me, um, it's Ben. Ben Braedon?"

Spike smirks his approval, and Ben breathes a little easier at the blatant worry pouring through the voice on the other end, even if there is a boatload of confusion to go with it. "Ben? What— is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. Everything pretty much sucks right now." Ben visibly relaxes into whatever familiarity there is between them, slouches back into his pillows and fidgets with the blankets pooled around his waist. Spike would run off to the vending machine, or find something to occupy himself while granting the lad some privacy, except he's still too paranoid to leave him unsupervised. Besides that, he's nosy. He can admit it. "It's my mom. I don't know what to do."

"Tell me what happened." Dean gets right down to business, and Spike can picture some bulky, Angel-like fellow sitting up in bed, droopy brow tense with deciding his next heroic move, possibly reaching for something sharp and poky while he tugs on his tights and cape. Unlike Spike, Angel _would _have a cape, and it's too bad he can't introduce Ben to the ponce after gleefully sharing this fact.

Ben repeats the story he gave Spike, relief palpable when Dean stops him at certain points and presses for specific details. Dean clearly knows what he's dealing with, and even though Ben leaves out the more pertinent bits—like the reason these baddies seem to be after him in the first place—Dean doesn't hesitate for a second to list the proper defenses against what he insists are demons, at which point Spike is listening very closely and taking notes. Holy water isn't exactly his best friend, but he'll risk a little sizzle if it means the boy's safe, and salt is easy enough to come by.

Precautions given, Dean then demands to know where exactly Ben is.

"I'm not sure. Still in Indiana, I think." Ben looks up, questioning.

"We're off I-65," Spike provides. "'Bout a stone's throw from the Kentucky border."

"Did you hear that?"

"Yeah, I got it." Dean's tone is hostile again. "Who's with you, Ben?"

"He's helping me. There were these guys, er, I guess demons? They were trying to kidnap me, but Spike came and totally kicked their butts and he found a charger so I could call you 'cause I broke the phone and he has this car that goes like a million miles an hour, but it's not as cool as yours, and we got away and he said he'd take me to find you, so um... where are you?"

Spike snorts, wondering if Ben breathed through any of that. The butt-kicking part is a slight exaggeration, but it's not like Spike's going to dispute it. Doesn't sound as manly to admit he just ran away really fast.

"Why don't you let me talk to... Spike?" Dean suggests, audible disdain for the name.

"Okay, but." Ben starts chewing his lip again, picking up on the uncertain animosity, and Spike nods when he looks askance. "Don't be a jerk to him. He's kind of obnoxious but he's pretty cool and, ya know, just remember my life is in his hands." Ben tries for a reassuring smile as he hands off the phone, and Spike rolls his eyes.

"Way to win friends for me, Peach. Thanks ever so."

Ben makes a disgusted face. "I told you not to call me that."

Spike is of the mind that a man can never be too old to stick out his tongue and cross his eyes. Ben giggles and calls him a dork, the weight of his predicament slipping off his narrow little shoulders as he squirms back into his blanket-burrow and watches the vampire prepare himself for a lecture.

"Yeah," he greets shortly. He can't help being slightly annoyed, his eavesdropping already giving him enough to go on to make him feel like a little kid on the waiting end of Daddy's wrath.

"You a hunter?" is Dean's immediate inquiry.

He gets the feeling the bloke's not talking about stalking Bambi through the woods. "Of a sort."

The caginess seems expected, and Dean doesn't press. "I assume you've already got Ben surrounded in devil's traps and salt, then." It's not a question, just a simple expectation, and the man sounds relieved to know this, even if Spike has no such thing in place. He makes a mental note to find out about these traps. "Tell me your side of it."

Spike tells him, a quick rundown of the facts and no personal background information whatsoever, and when he's done, Dean can't be bothered to express anything other than impatience.

"I'll meet you in Oklahoma. There's a motel about twenty miles north of Fairfield, just off Route 59. I'm in Arizona, but I can be there in two days."

He doesn't ask if Spike can be there in two days, an unspoken, _'I'll see you then and not a millisecond later, or else. _

He's a bossy prat, but Spike doesn't call him on it. He understands that people get unreasonably upset when it comes to little ones, his own bipolar behavior a perfect example. Decides to be grateful Dean is blissfully ignorant to his blood tie to the boy, as he's certain any scant reasoning abilities would fly right out the window.

"Right," he agrees, plotting the course in his head. He can be there sooner, actually, with the way he drives, but he's not going to correct him, intimate experience with Murphy's law telling him to allow for unforeseen obstacles and possible demon roadblocks. "Two days, it is."

There's a beat of silence, and then:

"Anything happens to that kid, I'll kill you." Short and to the point, no need to get creative when the guy clearly means it and feels he has the means to accomplish it.

Spike glances over the seat, where Ben's tucked up in a bitty ball, snarky little mouth parted slightly and a dab of drool collecting in one corner. Another round of thunder tumbles across the night, and Ben twitches an inch or so closer to the seat, little hand flopping out toward Spike. He hesitates, but ultimately knows he's beaten and pats at it reassuringly. Ben settles.

Trust. It's been implicit from the moment Spike said he wanted to help, and it's bloody insane kid logic, but the boy seems to be judging him for what he does and not what he is. His subconscious resolve to not get too attached is in real trouble, he knows, but he hasn't been afforded that kind of respect in a long time.

There's that disconcerting squishy feeling in his chest again, and he finds himself saying, "Anything happens, I'll stand still for you."

-:-

Spike doesn't need much sleep. He can easily run on a few hours a day, less if things are particularly riotous.

He wasn't planning on actually dozing much, figured he'd be keeping watch, sharpening his imaginary swords, and all that valiant bollocks—_not_ thinking about the land from whence he came and if he has any chance in hell of ever returning, missed opportunities with a certain Slayer and what-have-you—but Ben woke up after about an hour thanks to a rather obnoxious swell in the storm, and he's bloody determined to wheedle his way under Spike's already shoddy defenses.

So Spike's decided he's right knackered and needs his beauty sleep. The fates of grandmothers and puppies depend on it.

Ben, however, is apparently unconcerned with old biddies and cute, furry creatures dying horribly. He keeps talking.

"Elvis, dude. I rest my case."

"The Beatles," Spike mumbles, eyes tightly shut even if he can't seem to resist talking back.

"I reopen my case." Ben lapses into a moment of contemplative silence, yawns loudly.

Spike doesn't give him a chance to come back, shuts him down with, "Led Zeppelin."

Ben groans, pained that one of his favorite bands are being used against him. "I don't care. America still wins. We freakin' invented rock and roll. What's more influential than that?"

"We took it and made it better, that's what."

Spike doesn't know how an argument about classic rock versus punk rock evolved into which country had the most influence over rock music, but that seems to be happening a lot around Ben. The conversational roads are quite tangled with this twerp. Not to mention, he knows way too much about music for an eight-year-old. It's gotta be unhealthy.

"No way. Ramones, Misfits, all that crap you love so much. I mean, New York City's where punk rock got started."

"Sex Pistols."

"Suck," Ben says with vehemence. "I'm willing to give you The Clash, though."

Spike cracks an eye open, turns his head to see Ben curled up in the passenger's seat next to him, and just looks.

Ben cocks a brow, firm in his opinion, doesn't issue any retractions.

"You're dead to me."

Ben throws his hands up and rolls his eyes at Spike's theatrics. "Oh, c'mon, seriously?"

"Dead," he repeats, monotone, slashes his hand through the air and rolls onto his side with his back to the kid to emphasize Ben's untimely demise.

"You're such a drama queen."

Spike ignores him, tries to get comfortable in his half-upright position with the steering wheel cramping his stretching range. The distended cloud cover has turned day to night, making visibility beyond his window pretty much nil, unless you count dark gray, more dark gray and buckets and buckets of water. He figures Ben would sleep better if they were on the move, but with the weather being a galling shade of uncooperative, he's not about to risk saving the runt from demons only to lose him through the windshield.

His lack of reflection on the rain-streaked glass gives him a clear view of Ben despite his attempts to pretend he doesn't exist, and the boy's mouth is all twisted up in frustration, dangerously close to pouting. He'd better not start crying, or Spike's really in for it.

Thunder cracks, Ben jumps, and Spike says, "I might be talked into a resurrection if you split it down the middle."

Ben wobbles out a smirk. Spike mirrors it; can't help himself, bugger it all. "Well, I guess the whole British invasion didn't hurt anything."

"Too bloody right." Flipping back over, he tries for one of those stern, authoritative looks he's seen parents use on TV (or even the one Buffy tried that never really worked on Dawn). "S'bedtime now, Peach. Shut your gob and pass out already, would you? You look like the living dead, and m'not havin' your pop stake me for not looking after you properly."

The fist curled against Ben's eye pretty much negates his mumbled, "M'not tired."

Spike huffs, briefly considers pouring bourbon down the kid's throat, decides that would probably be more stake-worthy than letting him stay awake at all hours. "What's it gonna take?"

Ben shrugs, kicks at the dash. "This is kinda boring."

Spike has to agree. It's not like it takes much to bore him, and this whole lot of nothing is really beginning to make his skin hum. Sleep is the best way to wile the hours until Noah's flood passes through, but again, he's stuck at the boy not cooperating.

He never had this much trouble with Dawn when he babysat, and she was a moody, grieving teenager at the time—the worst kind of kid, he's been told. On her really bad nights, she'd zombie-shamble downstairs while Spike was reading or staring blankly at the telly, just curl up at his hip and cry herself back to sleep.

Oh.

Bloody. Hell.

Another wary glance at Ben's persistent abuse of the dash with his socked little feet, boredom threatening take Spike's brain apart and piece it back together in some cockamamie manner, and he's got little choice.

He rearranges his neglected pillow and punches at it, propping it against the door before he swings his legs up and lightly kicks the boy to make room.

"Hey, watch it, buttface!" Ben slaps at the feet crowding him onto the floor, quickly realizes the futility of it as Spike just chuckles and keeps putting them back, then squirms around until he's laid parallel, back pressed up against Spike's legs and his face smushed into the seat. "M'telling my dad you have no respect for my personal boundaries," he grumbles tiredly, even as he snuggles closer to black denim and shuts his eyes.

-:-

He has this dream sometimes—probably the closest thing he'll ever get to the absurd, fairy tale side of fantasizing—and in this dream a handsome devil with the most coveted coat in all the land does battle.

He fights fearlessly, tirelessly, and with a great noble purpose of some kind that no one really needs to examine too closely. Compact musculature is enhanced by the clinging of rain-soaked clothes as he brandishes swords and axes and other shiny, violent things (the ratio of hands to weapons is unimportant here), until he's overwhelmed by the rising tide of demons. It's understandable given the sheer numbers, but he's a former big bad in white knight's armor, and the brief glimpse of defeat enrages all his heroic sensibilities.

It's unacceptable.

This is where the inevitable comeback occurs, prematurely smug army hurled outward as he surges up with a defiant growl and proceeds to shred every last evildoer within range.

Angel, not to be forgotten, is moaning and groaning somewhere on the ground, Illyria has run off to conquer something or other, and so it's left to Spike to singlehandedly take out the remainder of the threat which, thanks to his renewed motivation, is easily done.

He lays waste to the alleyway and sets his sights on the dragon, leaps and bounds and then he's riding it, stabbing it, and oh hey, there's a certain blond being held captive in its claws, conveniently witnessing _his _brilliant slaying for once. It's no surprise that once he sends the dragon on a spiraling crash-course and whisks her free just in time to avoid the explosive landing, she expresses her undying love and insists on repaying him in sexual favors.

It's usually at this point, when Spike is lazily deciding whether or not Buffy deserves a second chance, and Angel is sheepishly admitting he's a stand-up guy after all, that he wakes up.

Admittedly, the dream's undergone a few alterations since his unpleasant little journey across worlds. Spike's painful, gallant death precedes a portal that sucks up the evildoers, and Buffy and Angel are grieving his mysterious disappearance for some unspecified amount of time—absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.

He's just gotten to the part where he rips his way back into the Hyperion's lobby, at which point aforementioned proposals and back-patting ensue, when he suddenly finds himself bolting upright.

"Never bleeding fails," Spike grumbles, glancing around for any reason to be missing out on the most rewarding part of his rare dream.

Honestly, his slumber is usually riddled with more mundane situations, wherein someone actually acknowledges any one of his minor contributions for once, so he's not remotely thrilled at his rude awakening. Nothing jumps up and down to take the blame, though.

Ben is fast asleep and wrapped around Spike's legs like a miniature octopus, impeding his range of motion as he tries to twist around and get a decent look out each window. The rain has gone, a lightning storm left in its wake, and the rest stop is absent of any new visitors. It's worryingly quiet out there, actually, which might be why he's no longer in the blissful land of nod. He may be a scary, night-stalking thing, but the way the sky flickers soundlessly to bring every single, too-still blade of grass into bright relief is a bit unnerving.

"Right," he decides, gently extricating his shins from Ben's grasp. "Time to go, then."

Thankfully lacking a pair of heaving breasts, Spike will kindly pass up the role of Horror Victim Bimbo. He's not sticking around to wait for the ax murderer to pounce, not with the bit still so unprotected.

He quickly gets the engine roaring, tacking a grocery mart and church onto his short list of places to visit before they can officially get this road trip under way but, of course, before he can shift out of park, the driver's side window bursts inward and there are hands clawing at his face.

A fist in his hair and he's being hauled bodily outside, jagged glass shredding and stabbing into his flesh as he thrashes and curses wildly. "Arrrrgh! Gerroff, tosser! I'm gonna feed you your bloody teeth!"

"Spike!"

"Ben, get on the floo-umph!"

One of those hands smothers his nose and mouth, the concentrated scent of sulfur making him gag. Spike lobs an elbow back, rewarded with a sharp crack-and-give even as the smothering hand stays on his face like a starving leech.

Daft wanker. Not like he needs to breathe.

Purposely stuttering down like a dying engine, it's not long before the demon seems satisfied that he's well suffocated and eases off. Spike's rudely introduced to the pavement, landing on his hip at a bone-crunching angle. His temple connects harshly with the ground and sends spots of black across his vision.

The demon starts for the car.

Spike rolls and kicks out, scissors his legs to tangle them with its shins, and rolls again. There's a wet snap, the demon's knee torqued and cleanly dislocated in its spiraling descent, a cracking thud as the back of its skull crashes down.

Spike scrambles to his feet, a quick glance over his shoulder before he starts kicking at yet another demonic hobo to discourage it from getting back up. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing? I told you to hide!"

Completing his shuffling exit from the car, Ben jogs up behind Spike and bashes the demon over the head with the warped crowbar. His face is white and twisted in a snarl, and the demon howls, curling in on itself to escape the dual assault as Ben winds up for another swing. It takes a few seconds for Spike to notice the welts on the filthy man's skin—burns from the strike of the crowbar. Iron is another of those repellents Dean mentioned, and he wonders if that's hindering its telekinetic defenses, or if maybe this git just doesn't have that ability at all.

Then Ben's kicking and snapping and smashing the demon's brains in like he's gone rabid, effectively diverting Spike's attention.

"Gimme that, whelp." He snatches the weapon from the kid's grip, lifting him off the ground for a moment with Ben's determination to hang on and keep swinging, gives him a small shove to communicate his displeasure at being disobeyed. "Get back in the car and stay there, or I'll lock you in the boot for the rest of the trip. Go on, now."

Ben doesn't go, just stands there trembling, little fists clenched tight, dark eyes locked on the monster before he skids a look over Spike's ripped shirt and raggedly gashed arms. Lightning strikes a pale, glaring line across his face, voice small and strained when he says, "You're bleeding."

"M'fine, Peach," Spike says, tone a degree softer. "Do as you're told. Don't need you watchin' this part."

He hesitates a second longer, a lingering, questioning look at which Spike nods reassuringly, and then he climbs back into the Charger, slams the door to punctuate his upset. Spike will have a little chat with him soon enough.

For now, he refocuses on the demon, drops to his knees and angles himself so that his body's blocking the view from the car, and shoves the curved end of the crowbar beneath its chin. The demon grunts, its skin sizzling at the point of contact and its eyes rolling around, unfocused. Looks like Ben knocked a few screws loose, but Spike's not deterred.

"You're gonna tell me what you want with him."

The demon manages a strangled laugh, blood-laden mucus spurting from its mouth and nose in sticky strings.

Spike pulls back to drive the crowbar through its shoulder. Howls shatter the creepy peace of the sodden, flashing night. He leaves the iron in place, smoke that reeks of burnt flesh and spent matches hissing up through the slow bubble of blood.

"Now, I can twist this round," he gives a small demonstration, earning another scream, "nice and slow 'til you bleed to death. Can you bleed to death?" he wonders aloud, shrugs it off after a beat. "Well, I can twist it 'til you've gone round the bend, or I can take it out and be on my merry way. The decision's yours, and you've only got this once to make it. M'not askin' twice."

He's not, and the demon would see this in his stony expression if it could get its spinning eyeballs under control, but he figures the flippant tone of his voice conveys his utter apathy toward the outcome. He can cheerily torment the wanker for putting that look on Ben's face, and he can easily leave it to drown in its own half-mad misery since he doesn't know of any way that will permanently dispose of it. There will be other demons to torture for information either way, he's almost certain of that unhappy fact.

"Dean Winchester!" it blurts when Spike takes its silence as an affirmative to go on with the twisting.

"Know as much. Lookin' for somethin' a bit more specific." He keeps turning the iron, slow and steady, and the demon curses and spits and mewls, trying to wriggle away and only managing to exacerbate its own anguish.

"Fuck! Stop, I can't—gah!"

Spike interprets the volley of shrieks correctly and lets up. "If you're not talking, you're screamin'. Got it?"

It tries whimpering and talking at the same time just to keep Spike from getting twitchy, an incoherent string of babble that eventually levels out into speech. "The kid. S'posed to get the kid. Bring him in, call Daddy and let him listen to the screams. Tryin' to renege. No going back. Made a deal."

The demon goes on repeating things in that same vein, not altogether helpful.

"What deal? Clear it up for me, twit. M'not in the mood for riddles tonight." Spike reaffirms his grip on the crowbar to emphasize his rapidly dwindling patience.

"Wait! Just. I can. Fuck! Deal's come due and he ain't payin'! You can't just not pay! She don't let anybody out for nothin'! She's pissed, and I ain't goin' back there to tell her I failed, so you can go ahead and exorcise me! Rather go back to hell than deal with that crazy bitch!"

"Exorcism?" Spike squints critically, knows the demon's close to becoming useless with its busy eyes rolling into the back of its head. "That rubbish actually works? Wait, does that mean you're possessing some poor sod?" His hand flies off the crowbar like it's been burned.

That just figures. He tries to do right by the boy and ends up tormenting an innocent not three yards from his curious little peepers. He doesn't have to turn around to know Ben's spying on him, can feel his eyes boring into his back.

"Bloody hell," Spike mutters, a slow hand tugging through his hair as he tries to think.

It would've been nice if Dean had shared that little possession tidbit, though he supposes he can't blame him for not getting into it with Ben. He'd told him how to repel them in case he got boxed in, obviously not expecting the boy to willingly stay in the ring long enough to banish anything, much less inflict mortal damage. And Spike had lied, let the man think he knew all about it so he wouldn't worry about the lad being in inept hands, which gave him no reason to outline Demon 101.

Then there's this deal to consider. What kind of pillock goes around making deals with demons? It's bad business no matter what land you hail from. Spike's less and less assured that he's leading Ben closer to safety with his dad caught up in all this evil hullabaloo. Truth is, he has no real sense of the bloke, other than that he's plainly possessive, and Ben has a small case of hero worship going on. He's swiftly developing the same for Spike, though, former mass murderer, so that doesn't exactly help his credibility.

"Dead," the demon rasps, losing steam, its head rolling loosely back and forth. "He's been dead a few hours. Just lemme go."

That doesn't make Spike feel much better, but he's got no more use for the demon. "Don't have my Bible on me, sorry," he grumbles, yanking the crowbar free.

It lets out another torn bellow, the tail end of which is choked off by a thick cloud hauling itself free of the broken body. The sulfuric stench gets stronger, slowly dissipates as the smoke shakes off the last of its flesh carcass and spirals off into the night.

Spike eyes the crowbar thoughtfully, can't figure out of the iron was keeping the demon pinned, or if maybe its brains had been too rattled to sort out that handy escape until just now. Something to file away for later testing.

As soon as he's safely behind the wheel again, Ben hovers in his personal space, grabby little paws carefully sweeping over the closing gashes on Spike's arms. "You shoulda just driven away," he scolds shakily.

"Bit difficult to do from the ground." Spike swats him off, starts the car again. He's a tad grumpy at losing surety in his course, too many serious thoughts bandying about, and he can't help the cold shoulder as Ben settles reluctantly back on his own side of the car. He pulls out into a severe lack of traffic, thanks to the late hour and location. "You should learn to listen. That demon could've snapped your little neck and then you'd really be out of sorts, wouldn't you?"

Ben scoffs, launches a spectacular pout and gets his new, favorite sport going: kicking at the dash. "They don't want me dead yet."

"Oh, well that makes it all better, then." Spike rolls his eyes.

"You're the one that coulda got killed!" Ben straightens and aims a fierce scowl at him, only it's more adorable than it is intimidating. Spike's ruffled feathers are smoothing over without his permission. "They totally did snap your neck last time and what if they figure out how to make you die for real?"

Oh, hell. He's bringing out the quivering chin, eyes misting up, and Spike is bare centimeters from being completely done in.

"They don't even—" He sniffles, swipes angrily at his eyes. "They don't even hafta kill you. They could just get you! What if they _get_ you?" He breaks off on a coarse whisper, throws himself back into his sulky slump.

Spike can't risk looking at him very long, eyes firmly on the road, but the harsh breathing tells him Ben's struggling to keep himself under control. That doesn't help him sort his doubts. Less than a day and he already appreciates the bit's company way too much, already has himself in too many knots over Ben's bitty, delicate feelings, and this...

This is how people get talked into adopting the filthy mongrel their kid sister found scrounging around in a dumpster, is what this is.

It's all, "Oh, it was so hungry and cute! I'm just gonna feed her and then we'll take her to the shelter, I totally swear." And the next thing anyone knows there's a furry ball tucked up in a bloke's lap while he's trying to watch _Passions_ and kid sis has got the camera and Buffy's declared the kitten the newest member of the family due to its innate ability to charm the big bad, and its future is suddenly in question because, "What if she doesn't get picked and they put her down?" and the be-cuddled vampire finds himself doomed to suffer cat hair on his clothes for the next several months.

The whole thing is bad bloody news.

Spike sighs. "Cheer up, Peach. Already got a demon. Doesn't fancy visitors, and I'm not exactly fragile. Looks like I'm one of a kind round these parts, and m'not sharing my weaknesses anytime soon."

"Pull over."

"What?" He looks over sharply, Ben's hands balled into fists over his knees, breaths slow and measured as he stares at his lap to keep his face hidden from view.

"Pull over," Ben grates, grudgingly tacks on a, "Please," that sounds a bit too desperate.

Spike obliges, curiosity niggled with worry, and Ben's tumbling out into the dirt before the car's come to a full stop.

"Balls." He scrambles out and around the car, a hurried knee-skate to the boy's side when he sees him hunched miserably on the ground, back shuddering as his insides hurl their way to freedom. Letting him eat his weight in sugar might have been a mistake, as most of what comes up is disgustingly colorful.

Spike pats awkwardly at his back for lack of anything more helpful. Ben heaves and wretches for what seems like ages before his arms finally give out, and Spike rescues him from a nap in the rank puddle, scoops him up and dumps him back into the passenger's seat. Ben looks up through hooded eyes that still manage to spark with irritation as he's being excessively swaddled in blankets, because the last thing Spike needs to deal with is a tiny sick person, even if he's fairly certain this is more of a case of stress overload.

Once more in the driver's seat, he asks, "Think that's the last of it, or should I wait a bit?"

Ben pointedly flops onto his side, face mashed up against the door, apparently content to punish him via the silent treatment, and that's all well and good.

Spike's got a lot more of that dreaded thinking to do, anyway, starting with his new reluctance to leave the lad in the care of a man on the wrong end of a demon deal.

-:-

**A/N:**Spike and Ben's great music debate doesn't reflect my own tastes or opinions. I ran across a thread at random (don't remember where the hell I found it) and it inspired their little argument. :)

tbc


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